


Getting On With

by dmdiane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Greg has an opinion, M/M, Poor Mycroft, Post Season 4 TFP, not strictly canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 14:56:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12460134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmdiane/pseuds/dmdiane
Summary: Greg Lestrade isn’t entirely sure how to fulfill Sherlock’s request to look after Mycroft. When John describes the events at Sherrinford, though, he knows what he has to do.





	1. Chapter 1

“Inspector, why are you here?”  
  
“Sherlock told me to come; here I am.” Greg rolls out his habitual fiction when dealing with either Holmes brother. He’s about as worried about Mycroft as he’s ever been about anything. He wants to see the man alive and well. Needs to see him alive and well. The alive part is gratifyingly apparent. He soaks in the vision of Mycroft standing, breathing, and slightly irritated.  
  
“And you always do what Sherlock tells you?” Mycroft stops just short of a scoff.

The brothers are alike in measurable myriad ways. At the same time utterly different. The truth of why Greg is here is because he loves both of them. He’s in love with this one. The truth of why he is here is because they both love him, albeit in their own Holmesian fashions.  
  
The events of the past two days - Greg hasn’t fully appreciated a third Holmes sibling - mean the time for being boys about any or all of this is done. The call from Anthea stating that Mycroft, Sherlock, and John were missing and sending him out to Musgrave had been alarming, but ordinarily so. He had watched a week’s worth of circumstances around the trio escalate well past acceptable towards another crisis of some sort. He thought he was ready. He was not. Sherlock having no idea where Mycroft was or if he was even still alive strangled Greg’s heart with fear. His brain froze and he doesn’t remember rescuing John or arresting Eurus. Anthea’s belated call that she had secured Mycroft out at Sherrinford Island took him to his knees with relief.  
  
Greg allows his gaze to travel every inch of the man, slowly and carefully cataloguing the other man’s living presence like a balm. Mycroft is as perfectly tailored, pressed, and buttoned up as ever. The only trace evidence of anything amiss is a faint haunted expression in his eyes. He’s wearing the charcoal grey suit, the one that highlights the blue in his grey/blue eyes. Greg knows the plain flat disc of a fob is at one end of the silver watch chain and Mycroft’s uncle’s watch is cradled in the watch pocket of his waistcoat. Greg is finally and completely done. He stands on Mycroft’s doorstep, his expression entirely open. He hides nothing. Not anymore.  
  
“Oh.” Mycroft breathes quietly. “I see.” His shoulders lower a tiny bit and his clenched hand unfurls, his entire posture easing in ways one might not notice if one doesn’t know the man well. “Well, then.” Mycroft holds Greg’s gaze unflinching. “You best come in.” He steps back.  
  
Greg crosses the threshold. He has no intention of ever leaving again.

Mycroft watches Greg enter the foyer, rumpled trench coat, worn brogues, air of rock solid determination exuding from his very pores. He is incalculably beautiful. Years of post divorce solitude have left him lean and hungry, a careful predator. He tosses his coat over a bench in the hallway. His silver hair stands on end, no doubt from the repeated track of fingers. He wears jeans and a jersey pullover, he’s off duty casual. Ridiculously attractive. Unfairly appealing. A constant burden. Temptation personified.

When the dark brown eyes return, the gaze stops Mycroft’s thoughts. Another peril of proximity. Mycroft closes the door. He faces the other man. Yet another soul he has let down. His eyes drop.

“Don’t.” Greg says.

Mycroft looks up, an eyebrow tilting.

“We need to talk. We do,” Greg begins. He shifts from one foot to the other in uncharacteristic hesitation. A hand rises, forestalling interruption. “But. I. You. This.”

Mycroft lifts the other brow, genuinely curious which of those sentences might actually unfold.

“Myc.” Greg gets out half his name before that extended hand reaches past his shoulder and grips the back of his neck in a gesture so immediate and intimate that Mycroft’s mouth drops open in surprise. Greg takes a step and and crashes their mouths together, pressing to him from nose to knees, tongue sweeping hard against his.

The taste is exquisite, the pressure explosive. Greg’s groan vibrates against his lungs and Mycroft realizes the harmonizing moan is his own. He grabs the other man’s hips to steady himself. The kiss is raw and needy, deep and claiming. It feels as if Greg is climbing into him. What defenses Mycroft has erected since asking Sherlock to kill him yesterday crumble as if they’d never been. The man in his arms is growling, low and ferocious. The skin on his flanks prickles as long banked desire sets fire inside him and rages. Greg’s kiss is so desperate, such a clear search for proof of life that Mycroft can only buckle to its demand and kiss him back, hard.

Greg pulls back abruptly to glance into Mycroft’s eyes, kisses him again soundly, and takes a deep breath. “You do not get to give away your life.” His voice is rough and low. “You do not choose to die.”

Mycroft blinks. “I beg your pardon.”

“No. No pardon.” Greg says. “You need to change your definition of an acceptable risk, Mycroft.”

Mycroft searches the dark brown gaze locked on him. Greg clearly knows details of what happened on the island. “If it is a choice between Sherlock or John or myself it is clear…”

“No.” Hands tighten on his biceps and fury flashes across Greg’s features. “Under no circumstances.” He huffs a breath. “We are not safe. I know that. Bad shit happens. But you don’t ask someone to kill you. We may not have anything, Mycroft. I get you not wanting a relationship with me. I do. But, it’s bad enough to not have you. I couldn’t stand to lose you.” His voice breaks, skidding over the emotions so close to the surface. His eyes go shiny and wet. He drops his arms and steps away. “Just, no. Okay? Just. I just needed to say. Just that.”

“Greg.”

The older man shakes his head. “I know I don’t have a real say in anything here. I know.”

“Greg.”

“But, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t say to your face that I want you alive.”

“Greg. Please.”

The please surprises Greg. “I’m sorry. I’m stopping. I’m going.” He backs up.

“Greg.” Mycroft moves to block the door. “Allow me to explain.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“Stay. ”

Mycroft’s word is soft, but the power of it halts Greg’s retreat. “You kissed me back.”

“I did.”

They regard each other afresh. Mycroft’s expression is soft, absent its habitual disdain. Greg tilts his head, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

“Can I entreat you to come in and perhaps have a cup of tea and talk more?” Mycroft asks.

Greg’s smile widens. “I’d like that.”

 

                                                                           ~o~

 

The tea is hot, strong, sweet. Greg sits at the breakfast table in the kitchen, sipping from his cup, leaned back in the chair with his legs stretching out and crossed at the ankles. He looks like an advert for country living, worn denim hugging his legs, thick waffled cotton fitted over his chest and abdomen. All that’s missing is the hunting dog lying at his feet. Mycroft unfolds his recollection of the past two days. Greg has to understand Mycroft wasn’t being cavalier with his own life. He was indeed the least valuable person, the equation simple. Although his expression is mutinous at several points in the narrative, Greg doesn’t interrupts. He listens, eyes intent, until Mycroft completes his re-telling.

Both men sit in silence for several moments. Greg finally gets to his feet and fixes another cup of tea. He doesn’t offer to make a cup for Mycroft, rather remaining with his back to him, keeping his face to himself.

Mycroft realizes he’s nonsensically waiting for Greg to offer some kind of verdict. He stands.

Greg turns and leans back on the counter while Mycroft makes tea. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Certainly.”

Greg scuffs his shoe against the tile. “I stand by what I said, Mycroft. We’ve known each other a long time. It took me two years in therapy to see that Victoria cheated on me because I fell for you. I never acted on it with my body or words but my heart and mind were long gone. I’ve been in love with you for years. Maybe I have no chance of anything more with you. Got it. But. The odds go way way down if you’re dead.”

Mycroft marvels at the man’s bravery.

“I might’ve gone on along, too. Then John said you asked Sherlock to shoot you in the heart and I…” Greg’s voice goes rough and low. His words falter. He sucks in a ragged breath. “If you’re giving yourself away I want you to know you’re giving me away, too.” His eyes fill and he looks steadily at Mycroft, unashamed. “Thank you for the kiss.” He whispers.

“You’re welcome.” Mycroft whispers in return. Mycroft is stunned anew by how very mistaken he has apparently always been about the people in his life. Mummy’s disappointment, Father’s indifference, Sherlock’s scorn, Eurus’ hatred; his life prepares him rather perfectly for espionage and diplomacy. And leaves him woefully unskilled for much else.

Greg grins at Mycroft’s reflexive politeness. The man is ridiculously dear. Scary as fuck, yeah. But, so, so dear. Greg relies on the man in front of him for strategies. His own improvisation skills are peerless, though. He came here with no objective other than to make sure, absolutely sure, Mycroft still exists. He came here angry enough that his declaration doesn’t surprise him. Gods know he’d never have predicted kissing Mycroft without so much as a by your leave. Well, he’s nothing if not adventurous. He puts his mug on the counter and leans up to stand. He glances at Mycroft’s mouth and back up. “Can I?”

Mycroft doesn’t say no and Greg lifts up into another kiss, this one just a brush of lips, an extension of his question. Mycroft’s strong fingers frame his jaw, tilt his face, and propel the kiss deep in the mere beat of his heart.

“I want you.” Greg gasps with raw pleasure. His heart rate escalates as if he stepped off a cliff into thin air. Is this what Mycroft felt with a gun muzzle pressed to his chest? Greg’s legs begin to tremble and he is in trouble here, real trouble. This will break him. He yanks himself away, hauling air into his lungs.

Mycroft holds him fast. Grey/blue eyes fix on him, dark with intent. Adrenaline sings through his veins, energy radiating out from his center to the tips of his fingers and toes. Fight, flight, freeze, or… Fuck. Arousal burns down his throat to his cock and the man he wants holds him near. He dismisses every caution and dives for Mycroft’s mouth, shoving his tongue between his lips and his hips against his groin. Miraculously an echoing hardness greets his erection and he groans. “Mycroft, you have to tell me,” he chokes out. If Mycroft says no, he has to stop. And he hurts with wanting. “Use your words, Myc.”

“Yes.” It’s a whisper. But, it is yes.

Every sensible thought dissolves into a fizz of pure aching desire.

 

                                                                                 ~o~

 

Mycroft drifts back to awareness engulfed in heavy warm policeman. The experience of being unable to move, aching, sore, and exhausted leaves him unaccountably content. Greg lies mostly on him, wrapped around him like a starfish. For all the times he imagined versions of sex with the man this blissful mutual surrender never once crossed his mind. He hums his delight.

Mycroft seems to be purring underneath him. Greg tightens his hold. Amazing. He rouses enough to realize he might be crushing him. Though, he is purring. Yeah, that seems very good. Being on the floor is a bit of a challenge. Even with the plush no doubt hand knotted Persian carpet under them. Greg grins. Can’t help it. This is the most thoroughly shagged he’s ever been. He shifts his weight from Mycroft’s ribs and hips to the floor without letting go.

“Ow.” Greg shifts again and registers carpet burn alongside beard burn and the nicest stretched aches in the best places.

“Mmm.” Mycroft offers agreement.

“That. Was. What I needed.”

“I had no idea that was on offer.” Mycroft lifts to an elbow and settles a piercing gaze on Greg. His auburn hair is mussed, showing hints of curl. His eyes sparkle. Greg didn’t know this was possible. His heart rolls over with pride for making Mycroft look like this.

“I’d say that was on offer any time you want, love. But, all of that requires a bed at my age.” Greg’s grin goes rueful. “‘S’all yours, though.” He groans.

“I have several beds.” Mycroft murmurs.

Greg rolls off of Mycroft to lie on his back and stare up at the ceiling. He tries to determine when or how Mycroft became his favorite person. The ceiling is remarkably far away and elaborately coffered with a floral detailing he’s not sure he likes. Thirteen years. Christ, he was 41 when they met. He shakes the thought clear from head. Did I tell you I love you?” He asks.

“Yes.” Mycroft shifts to his side and runs a long finger from Greg’s Adam’s apple to his cock. “Four times including this.”

“Ah.”

“Thorough.”

“Try.”

“Gregory.”

He looks over to see an adorably disheveled Mycroft looking back quite seriously. “Yeah?”

“I, too, have very tender feelings for you.” Mycroft sighs. “I’m not accustomed to speaking of affection.”

The corner of Greg’s mouth lifts at the flutter in his belly. Whether from Mycroft’s touch or his words or his overall awkwardness he’s unsure.

“Me either. I’m probably just going to repeat myself. And you’re probably just going to keep talking around the edges.” Greg admits. He shifts to face Mycroft, brown eyes intent. “But, before we go back our default state of duty and silence…” He falters then, jaw clenching once, twice. He doesn’t know what he’s asking.

“You must know there is nothing for me to go back to.” Mycroft says. “This has destroyed everything, Greg.” This is the first time he’s acknowledged his deepest fear out loud. “My parents have disowned me. My sibling will be cared for by others now. I’ve been placed on a month’s leave by Her Majesty’s Service and have no hope of returning to the position I held. I cannot, as you say, go back.”

“What are you on about?” Greg frowns. “That’s ridiculous. People don’t disown their family. I’m sure your leave is temporary. And necessary.” He covers Mycroft’s hand between them.

Mycroft lifts a brow. “John Watson will look after Sherlock. Eurus’s supervision will fall to someone detached. And what do you know about families? You don’t have one.”

Greg considers responding to the meanness of the last comment. But, Mycroft is basically pouting. And so clearly hurt. It’s true. He’s never hidden the scars of being raised in state care and perhaps his ideas of what families do are burnished by a lifetime of wishful thinking. He replays Mycroft’s words. It slowly dawns on him that Mycroft must’ve foreseen the disastrous consequences to himself when he pressed the gun to his chest. He pushes out some air. Recalls how devastated he’d felt in the wake of his divorce and Sherlock’s ‘suicide’ that cost him months of suspension. Thinks about shaving all his hair off that day. He runs fingers through his current unruly mop of gray.

Mycroft nearly smiles. “Just so.” He always knows.

“Okay. Well. You need to know that neither your family nor your job are what I like about you. You’re funny. And brilliant. And distractingly sexy. And we see the same world, Mycroft. You see me. I like that.” Greg offers.

“Do you?”

“Yeah. And I like that I see you, too.”

“That is lovely.”

“Going back is vastly overrated. Trust me. I’ve done it.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow and his nose crinkles in a laugh of agreement. “All those times you went back to Victoria. Made me want to shoot you both.”

Greg snorts. “Glad you refrained.”

“I would happily take your advice about not going back if I had any clue how to go forward.” Mycroft’s expression softens and goes wistful in a way Greg has never seen before.

“The only thing I can promise you is me.”

Mycroft traces Greg’s cheek and runs a thumb over the scruff on his jaw. “That sounds like entirely enough to be getting on with.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven months later

Epilogue

Two men in their middle years have to work to knit their lives together. There are things that help. The lingering heat in Greg’s gaze helps Mycroft feel wanted. Mycroft’s laugh, a sound few other than Greg get to hear, helps Greg feel as if he’s enough. Mycroft’s job changes, but he doesn’t lose it. His new position doesn’t involve travel or danger. Greg gives his DI’s more responsibility and spends less time out on the streets. John does take care of Sherlock. Eurus’s care is assigned elsewhere. The resultant long evenings together, spent walking, or reading, or just talking over a meal begin weaving them into a seamless shared existence.

Greg lowers his book to look across the bed to where Mycroft works. The keyboard taps slow, then stop, and Mycroft peers over his reading glasses. “Yes?”

“Rosie’s birthday party is in three hours.” Greg starts.

“You want me to go.”

Greg tilts a brow. They’ve had this conversation twice. “No, love. We are both going.”

“Gregory, I’ve repeatedly stated that I intend to decline the invitation.”

“Mycroft,” Greg gently mimics the tone. “I”ve repeatedly insisted you come.” He rests the book on his chest to reach across the duvet and run a finger along the curve of Mycroft’s elbow.

“You realize you cannot force me to go.” Mycroft snaps. “I don’t understand why you continue to plague me.”

“No, I can’t. And, yes, you do.” Greg scoots closer, letting the book fall into the covers. The second most notable thing about the past seven months has been Sherlock pursuing a friendship with his older brother. The brothers are probably never going to be exactly fun with each other, but Sherlock reciprocating some of Mycroft’s years of concern has been good. “We both know Sherlock wants you to come. And Rosie adores you. Staying here is simply not an option.”

Mycroft closes his laptop and sinks into the bed. “My parents will be there.” He whines.

“You can ignore them.” Greg takes the laptop and rests it safely on the bed behind him so that he can curl up with Mycroft. “They’ve been awful. You don’t even have to say hello. Or acknowledge them. But you have to come.”

“She’s two, for heaven’s sake. She’s not going to know if I’m not there.”

“True. But she will know if you are there. Sherlock and John will be insulted if you aren’t. And when she sees the pictures years from now she will wonder where you were.” Greg says. Missing the party will set back their interactions with Sherlock and John to nearly starting over. If ever there was a test, this is one.

“You will be angry, too.” Mycroft adds.

“I will,” Greg sighs. He wishes he wouldn’t, but he’s already irritated by the argument. He expects to lose it, but he will be upset to go alone. Mycroft is the most politically savvy person he knows. He can’t fathom why the man doesn’t see the politics of personal relationships as well. He also doesn’t think they can avoid ever seeing the Holmes parents again. He in no way wants to spend the evening fielding questions and snide remarks about Mycroft’s absence. “Love, please. We don’t have to stay any length of time. A gift, a kiss, and we can go. Please. For me.”

Mycroft is surprised Greg is pulling out the ‘please for me’ and the eyes. It doesn’t seem fair. “Why do you care so much?”

Greg considers. “It’s not so much that I care about this one party, Myc. It’s that I care that we get past this hurdle with as few casualties as possible. Avoiding your parents won’t change them. I agree we don’t go out of our way to see them. But, we don’t hurt others to avoid them, either. I don’t want them to have that much power.”

“I see that.” Mycroft concedes. “I do. I simply don’t want to hear my mother…”

“I won’t let her.” Greg interrupts. “Don’t worry about that. I’m not going to stand by and let her insult you.”

Three hours later, Greg watches Mycroft deep in conversation with the two-year-old Rosie Watson. They are on the floor with a book about bees, one of her birthday gifts from Sherlock that she’s insists Unca My read. They examine a picture of a honey bee in comparison with Rosie’s plush bee and discuss fur.

“Thank you for getting him to come.” Sherlock hands Greg a cup of tea. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”

Greg’s glance flicks to Violet Holmes, currently in the kitchen talking with Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock winces. “I know.”

“Thank you for not letting her belittle him.” Greg allows. It’s been clear Sherlock had words with the woman beforehand. She’s distant, but unfailingly polite.

“I told her she can’t see Rosie or myself if she continues.”

Greg’s impressed. “Well. Thank you.”

Sherlock nods and wanders away to corner Molly about some remains. Greg notices Violet’s gaze stray to Mycroft, widen, then look away. Even that is cause for Greg to step between them, interrupting her line of sight again. She’s been quiet enough to see Mycroft at his very best, yet her surprise is annoying.

Rosie hunkers in the lee of Mycroft’s lanky frame, sitting on his crossed legs, her head on his chest, her hand holding his. She is an outgoing and affectionate child, but her passionate love for her two papas and her My is unequalled. Geg, Huds, and Mols are close seconds.

John steps up beside Greg and grins. “You’ve certainly worked wonders on him. Never thought I’d see him like that. Christ, he’s wearing jeans, sitting on the floor, speaking fluent toddler. I think he understands her better than we do.”

“Comes from speaking all those languages.” Greg chuckles. “And those wonders go both ways, mate. Listen. After the bee, we have to take off. I’ve got plans for that man that don’t include any of you.”

“I probably don’t want to know.”

“Nope.”

“I’m glad you came.” John says.

Greg scoops Mycroft up when the story is done, they say general good-byes over their shoulders on the way out the door. They’re halfway down the stairs when Greg feels Mycroft’s shoulders relax. “Glad that’s over?”

Mycroft nods.

“Bad?”

“A bit. Not as bad as I expected. What did you say to mummy to make her so quiet?”

They emerge on Baker Street in step. Greg hooks his thumb around Mycroft’s as they walk. He loves feeling his heartbeat in the subtle touch. “Not a thing. That was all Sherlock.”

Mycroft hums.

It’s been seven months and gods know they fight about the stupidest things. But, it’s been the best seven months of his life and Greg senses a lifetime of tomorrows.

“I feel remarkably fine for having seen them.” Mycroft sounds bemused.

“I keep telling you; happiness is a perfectly fine revenge.” Greg pulls Mycroft’s hand up and kisses his palm before letting go. They need to find a cab and some dinner.


End file.
